Assurances
by Diary
Summary: Re-posted, possibly under a different title. Face it, Doctor Oliver, you've accepted that this man, to quote a cliché song you once heard on a Disney movie Katie had put on for Jacob, is your Earth and heaven. Why are even trying to pretend that isn't the case? Complete.


Disclaimer: I do not own As the World Turns.

Author's Notes: This was written and originally posted before the train incident.

* * *

"Reid?"

Luke's fingers are going through your hair, fingers wrapping around the curlier strands. His chin is on your shoulder, his breath hitting your neck. "No anger to defuse right now," he murmurs, tongue almost touching your skin.

His voice is playful and hopeful but with a barely present sense of desperation.

"And if I it said right now, would you believe it?"

He shifts, and you mentally agree with every person who has ever called you a bastard. You're not sure why, but you do. Face it, Doctor Oliver, you've accepted that this man, to quote a cliché song you once heard on a Disney movie Katie had put on for Jacob, is your Earth and heaven. Why are even trying to pretend that isn't the case?

"Yes," he answers, calmly. "I would."

Oh, well that's good to know.

"I told you I want everything," you say, ignoring the part of you that hates yourself with a white hot fury for not manning up.

"Katie's not here," he says, softly. "She won't be until the morning. Your room is only a few feet away."

You, as general rule, try not to think of Luke and his past sex life with Noah. However, you can't help but wonder if sex was used as placation or as some sort of barter system between the two.

God knows you want sex right now. God knows you wanted sex that night he invited you inside.

"I don't mean that," you inform him, hand reaching out and stroking his leg. The shiver you get in response is gratifying. "It's obvious I want you in my bed," you add before his insecurities can spin that statement completely out-of-proportion. "But I want assurances."

"Assurances? Of what?"

Assurances he won't one day decide that, no, turns out Noah Mayer is the love of his life. Assurances that he won't decide to start drinking again and ruin his kidneys. Assurances that when the two of you are in bed it's because he wants it, wants you, and isn't using sex as a bargaining chip of some sort.

"Reid." He tugs gently on your hair. "If this is about Noah-"

Twisting out of his grip, you half-turn, facing him. "I don't have a high opinion of most people, but there are very few I hate," you tell him, concentrating on keeping your voice steady. "When I first came here, you were one of them." Ignoring the flash of hurt that crosses his face, you continue, "If you had died," here your breath does catch, "I would have held my own private celebration. Now, less than a year later, the thought of you being hurt is truly unbearable."

He cocks his head, and you automatically bring your hand up to cup his cheek, sighing as he leans into it. "If it helps, I despised you," he says, the words vibrating against your hand. "If it weren't for Noah, if you had died, I wouldn't have been too upset." He looks you straight in the eye, and you feel yourself swallow thickly. "I'm in love with you, Doctor Reid Oliver."

And screw both of your insecurities and fear. "I love you, too," you say, stroking his cheek with your thumb. "I'm in love with you, Luke."

You lean forward, kissing him, soft and tentative and slow.

Then, he breaks the kiss, groaning. Before you can ask what you've done wrong now, he's standing up and grabbing your hand. "Bedroom," he demands, a hint of pleading in his tone.

A part of you is still afraid his reasons and yours aren't the same, but the part of you that's never been ashamed of who you are, the part that challenged idiotic teachers even as a small child, the part of you that's confident and aggressively goes after what you want is telling you to get into that bedroom and make it so good that Luke won't be able to think, won't be able to say anything beyond your name and variations of 'so good', 'oh, god', and 'please'. You fear for your safety, sanity, and possible future happiness if you don't listen to that part.

Nodding, you squeeze his hand, standing up, letting him lead you into the bedroom.

000

In the morning, you're both sore.

He kisses you chastely before sitting up. "Are you happy?"

"Of course," you answer, automatically. That should be obvious. Reaching out to cup his cheek, you ask, "You?"

"Yes. More than I thought I could be," he says, grinning. "Love you," he says, leaning down to kiss you. "Shower?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

He sighs. "With me," he clarifies, pointedly.

Sure, you've implied it, but you've never explicitly said that world-renowned neurosurgeons can't be utter morons from time to time. It comes with the whole being human thing. "We could do that," you agree, sitting up. Then, just because you can, because it's true, and because you sincerely hope he'll believe it, "I love you."

His smile, knowing and trusting and a little bit smug, eases your fears a little more.


End file.
